Lamplight
by skysedge
Summary: Something was missing. Another gift for Hellsnextboss.


Kashuu Kiyomitsu had been staring at his futon for hours, delicate brow furrowed.

Something was _missing_.

There was nothing wrong with his room. It was simple but comfortable, stylish even, and he had enough space to spread out all of the things he was slowly accumulating. Clothes he never wore sat in neatly folded piles. Beside them, a miniature army of nail polish bottles in rainbow colours, most of them untouched. He wasn't cute enough to use the prettier ones yet, wondered if he would ever be. It was best to stick with what felt right, even if red was angrier than he would have liked.

It _did_ feel right, being here. True, there weren't many of them so far and he could go hours wandering the citadel without bumping into someone else. He didn't mind that too much, had been told he was friendly and charming but found conversation draining most of the time. Naturally everyone wanted to discuss what this place would look like when there were more of them, what fun they could all have living together. It was sweet, really, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth that was too ugly to share.

His room was fine, the citadel was lovely and the people were kind. And yet something was _wrong._

He moved to crouch by his futon, prodding and fluffing at the blankets in an effort to fix whatever the problem was. The most glaring abnormality was the sword under the pillow.

"Ah!"

The damn thing had cut him again. Well that was enough of _that._ Not that it had worked, anyway. Not only had he not had a single dream of what he was wishing for but he had barely been able to sleep with it poking him in the face all night long. How stupid. How stupid to hope.

He set it to the side quietly, intent on getting rid of it in the early morning where no one could witness his shame. It was fine to blush when your only company was the lamplight, or if it was for an acceptable reason. This was shame he felt burning his cheeks and his ears and he hated it, hated that he _understood_ why he was being like this and why the futon had nothing to do with it.

And now there was blood on the pillowcase. Wonderful.

He picked it up and held it close to his face, inspecting the damage, the crimson against the white, another imperfection. He wanted to fling it away, pretend nothing had ever happened. Instead he found himself pressing his face into the softness, hugging it close to his chest and closing his eyes tight.

Something was missing. No, not something. Someone.

Someone he would never let see him like _this,_ weeping into a pillow in the dead of another long and solitary night. Someone who he would never ask to comfort him, to say the right words, to push his now ruined hair back from his face. Someone who just had to be there, to fill up all this space that smothered him night by night. Someone that-

A footstep outside.

Just a passing resident, or a cat, or the boards creaking with a change in temperature. He _knew_ that but the embarrassing, pathetic hope was still there. The hope that the door would slide back to show someone who understood, who would want to see him and catch up on everything from the past.

A scornful laugh left his lips and he lowered the pillow to his lap.

Who would _want_ to see him, anyway? He knew he looked terrible. Eyes reddened and puffy from tears and a lack of sleep, cheeks blotchy with emotion, hair and clothes out of place. An embarrassment, that's what he was. Coming here hadn't changed that. Touching a hand to his neck, the rough skin under the scarf, he thought he knew why everything felt so wrong.

He had been given a second chance after all. Shouldn't he be happy enough with just that? Why must he keep _wanting?_

"Enough," he whispered to himself.

After a moment, he decisively pushed over a pile of the clothes he had so carefully arranged, scattering them over the floor. Checking them over and refolding them would take an hour at least and keep his mind quiet.

To work, then. Anything to keep him busy until the next night.

A losing battle. Something he was growing used to. Delicate hands folding and straightening, eyes seeing nothing at all.

A creak on the boards outside.

 _And still..._


End file.
